


A Desert Dream

by orphan_account



Category: Modesty Blaise - Fandom
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Sequence, F/F, Femslash, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-23
Updated: 2007-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bessie and her dancing girls are safely through their adventure, but Bessie has formed a crush that can't be wrapped up quite as neatly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Desert Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Bessie, in case you don't remember her, was in an adventure involving a fictional Arab country, dancing girls in gauze shooting army rifles, gambling, and Willie being adorable pretending to be a djinn. I don't think we ever saw her again.

_Names_

Bessie'd been called a lot of things. _Dyke_, when she'd been careless in the wrong situation, or stayed too long in one place; ironically, in other situations, _chauvinist enabler_. But groups like her dancing girls should be run by women, she felt, not grabby men, and she, though she looked, would never touch. They were her girls, and she would look out for them.

_Hero_ was the name Modesty had called her after the firefight. Modesty, with her low seductive voice, her cold blue eyes warmed by every smile.

There were other things Bessie craved to hear from those lips.

-

_Night _

Soap and perfume, and around them, the heavy smell of hot sand; gasoline and rotting food on the breeze.

The breeze was cooling, now, blowing from the desert. Bessie and Modesty sat and talked on the balcony. Bessie shuddered in the coolness, dressed as she was in little more than gauze. Modesty wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders and told her of desert winds and old ghosts.

Modesty always smelled faintly of gun powder, even when she'd just stepped out of the bath. Under her perfume, under the soap, a reminder.

Bessie leaned into her a moment and dreamed.

-

  
_Assumption _

The girls had noticed, Bessie was sure of it, from the way they stopped talking and tittering as she walked towards them. 'If you're looking for Modesty, she's in the new library with Willie and Kerima,' Deirdre said. A knowing smile and an arched eyebrow. Bessie replied by ushering the girls into the hall that had been set up for them for extra practice.

(She'd drop by the game room later.)

It didn't matter if they knew. It didn't matter if anyone knew, at this point. Modesty was Willie's; Bessie was quite sure. Jealousy choked her like a black smoke.

-

  
_Plan _

Modesty moved her knight, and sipped her wine, white and honey-spiced, cooled for the weather. Her other knight watched the board, brow furrowed in a familiar look of concentration; surveying the black and white squares like so many hills, vantage points, blind spots and fortresses. The little princess was playing by the window, fascinated by her toy gun, waging a war against invisible enemies behind the sofa.

Modesty let her mind wander for a moment, thought of Bessie, navigating a different strategic territory, one altogether more beset with traps, as Willie moved into a fake faint.

Move decided, she checked.

-

  
_Okay _

They met in the hallway, Modesty just coming out of the library (Kerima had ushered Willie out on some adventure, only for djinns and little girls), Bessie on her way there, to her, drawn by the same instinct that forces better-knowing fingers to pick on a scab.  
Modesty smiled to see her, and Bessie's knees went weak. She felt like a fool, such an ordinary nondescript dumb creature, before this.

'Come,' said Modesty, 'I think we need to talk.'

'It's okay,' Bessie said, lost and hurt and exposed.

'Yes, Bessie. It is,' said Modesty, stepped up, and kissed her.

-

  
_Consummation_

Soap and perfume and gunpowder.

And sweat, silk, musk; the sky.

Tastes: a hint of honey and wine on her tongue; salt, bitterness; her.

She moved against her, wiry grace, soft flesh, her fingers in places that had been left untouched for too long, and Bessie muffled her moans on silk sheets, on Modesty's breasts.

Was she in love? Could she be? Did she have the right? Perhaps not; but for now here was Modesty, here was the hero, and she loved her, loved her.

She had her till morning, at least.

She would make the most of it.

-

  
_Love _

'You're beautiful.' Modesty ran her fingers through Bessie's hair, down her neck, lightly. 'And brave; a good person. I like that.'

Bessie smiled sleepily, shifting to look at the goddess, through vision blurred by adoration. She could hear the "but" coming, but she was too happy, now, to care. Yet.

'But...'

'It's not Willie, is it?' Bessie interrupted.

Modesty stopped, surprised and amused. 'No, it's not Willie.'

'You don't belong to anyone.'

'Never have.'

'It's all right,' said Bessie, and kissed her, smothering her words.

It was enough, had to be - to be loved; if only as one of many.

-

  
_Gone_

Modesty and Willie were gone before the end of the month.

Modesty had stopped for Bessie, as Willie had stopped for Kerima; one last piggy-back ride for the princess, and one last fierce love-making for the dancing girl, up against the wall of the old harem, one wandering guard or servant away from disgrace, shame, perhaps violence, no matter how enlightened the sheik was.

Bessie cried like a fool all the way through.

'I will find you,' Modesty had whispered before leaving.

So kind. She was left grasping a calling card, moist with sated desire and sweat.

She'd be waiting.


End file.
